Forever
by Skye Feyden
Summary: The word "forever" is able to mean so many different things to so many different people. Skittery and nine of his best friends must embark on a journey to overcome private issues and learn what "forever" means to them.
1. One: Friends 'Til the End

Hello again. **Thanks so very much** for choosing this story to read out of all the others on the list … **it is,** you must believe, **greatly appreciated.**

So for those of you who know me, you may know what my style of writing is like. If that's the case, that's great. If not, read on and find out. Why have I mentioned this? Well, I am glad you've asked. I want to know how exactly I can improve. Tear me down, if you must -- trust me, as long as it's useful, I don't care. Go ahead, be brutally honest, hammer me with criticism. Believe it or not, I would be grateful.

And second of all, _I am sending a desperate plea_ to anyone who may be able to help me with a problem. I know that the readers and authors on ff.net come from all walks of life and have all kinds of different experiences under their belts. So to those of you who may know any sort of solution, my problem is this: I am currently seventeen years old, soon to be eighteen. Of the three colleges to which I applied, I have been accepted at all three and could not be happier about that. However, my choice has been, and still is, New York University, a fantastic school for my desired major of journalism. Only one barrier is in the way: money. I know this is a problem almost everyone faces, but as my dad was just recently unemployed for almost a year, it's as if I've been struck by the Plague itself. Although he is working at the moment, the job pays next to nothing, and we are fearful that the loans for which we are applying may fall through and be denied. Of course, if someone out there reading this right now knew a way I could make some money, potentially and most desirably, by way of writing, it would be great. In about another month and a half, I will be working three jobs myself to compensate for our previous loss of income and earn some cash for school. I don't care what it takes. **This is my desperate, heartfelt plea for ANY kind of solution at all.** Newspapers; children's books; independent agencies looking for a certain plot or character; someone looking for a hand-written, personalised story; ANYTHING … I don't care. I will do it. Email skyefeyden@hotmail.com or leave it in a review, if you'd be so graciously kind.

That has to be the single longest author's note I've ever left … I figured it's worth a shot. My readers, however few, have always been kind to me, and what have I got to lose? If you're still hanging on, _thanks so much. You don't know how much appreciate it._

A million times thanks,

--Skye Feyden

**__**

Forever

Chapter One: Friends

The soft sounds of AOL Instant Messenger floated forth from the dimly lit den.

"Spot?" Skittery asked, cautiously turning the corner. "You there?"

A grunt. So the answer was yes.

"Everyone's looking for you. Why don't you come out?"

Spot did not turn around. He pulled up a flashing window and began to type. Skittery could faintly see the piece of conversation.

_KingConny6: Everyone's here, why aren't u?_

BetOnTheBay10: I'm sick, Spot! I told you that!

KingConny6: I'll call u tomorrow then, alright?

BetOnTheBay10: Fine. Tell the boys I said hello. I wish I could be there to see u.

KingConny6: Me 2. I gotta go, Race. I'll call tomorrow. Talk 2 u then.

BetOnTheBay10: Miss u, Spot. Bye.

Spot quickly shut out the window. When he turned around, he looked angry.

"Always gotta know what I'm up to, doncha?" he growled in a low voice.

"I didn't see any of it," Skittery lied solemnly. "So come on out, and have some fun."

Turning back to the computer, Spot signed off of Instant Messenger and pushed the chair into the desk. He did give a lop-sided smile to Skittery, but it seemed more tired than anything else. Weakly he said, "It's not the way it looks."

They walked together through the den and the hallway into the living room where a large group of boys was gathered. The room was huge, much the same as the rest of the house, and now it was filled with loud music and chatter.

On the couch sat a boy named Tommy Myers, otherwise known as Mush for his gentle heart. Engaging him in conversation was Alan Parker, or Kid Blink because of his eye which was no longer really an eye. Mush appeared enrapt at the conversation, his big dark eyes sparkling as Alan talked.

Casually drinking a few cans of beer, nothing serious, were Danny "Snitch" Murphy, Jack "Cowboy" Kelly, Mark "Specs" Murray, and Erik "Dutchy" Samson. Their talk, ironically enough, had turned to the autumn's Republican Convention to be held in New York City, their home. Davey Jacobs sat at a nearby table, slouched in his seat, nodding occasionally and sipping from a cup of apple juice. Skittery looked at them and smiled. This small party was a joint effort between his mother and himself; for his part, it was an after-Christmas get-together, and for his mother's part, it was in honor of her son's acceptance to New York University, Early Decision, of course. It was senior year of high school, and Skittery wanted every open opportunity he had spent with his friends.

The lights of the city beyond lit up the night. Skittery felt warm as he glanced at them from the window of the incredibly giant townhouse. He had lived here all his life, choosing to stay with his mother after this parents' messy divorce. _Come to think of it,_ he said to himself, _we all stayed with Mom._ "We" meant his ten-year-old brother James and eight-year-old sister Maddy.

"Get back here!" Danny called and laughed. The beer in his hand was still his first, and no signs of drunkenness were evident in his voice or movements. Leftover eggnog sat in a pitcher on the table.

"Huh?" Skittery asked, seating himself next to Davey. "What was the question?"

"Democratic Party: who wins your endorsement, Skitts?"

Skittery groaned. "Eh, politics. Come on, boys, we're supposed to be having a good time, not trying to fix the system. Can't we discuss anything else?"

"Sorry, I forgot," Jack snickered. "Your dad ruined politics for you a long time ago."

"You mean the dead-beat?" Skittery tried to smile. He was not sure that his anger would ever die. Not only had his father practically lived at work, Skittery also suspected him of having several mistresses to be satisfied by when he was supposed to be at home, spending time with his wife and three children. What the man had put Skittery's mother through … Skittery was not sure it was forgivable.

But he smiled at his friends. "Sorry." he said humbly.

"What about you, Spot?" Danny turned his attention to the frowning Irish boy. "Will you lower yourself down from your golden throne long enough to grace us commoners with your thoughts?"

"We sound like nerds," Spot alerted. "Don't you hear it?"

"I can hear it, but it can stay a secret from the rest of New York. Come on, Spot, any opinions?" Specs raised an eyebrow.

Spot considered, then answered. "Nah. Not sure. There are more important things for me to worry about right now."

Everyone nodded as if they understood. After a moment of ponderous silence, Mush raised his glass and proclaimed, "A toast … to our boy Skittery, and his accomplishments. Let this be a beginning, not an end. To Michael."

All the boys raised their glasses and repeated, "To Michael!" while Skittery himself merely nodded his head in a humble gesture of acknowledgement.

"Don't forget about Christmas, and New York, too," he said as they all sipped from the warm eggnog. "I'll raise my glass to them."

"So our little boy's goin' to the big University," said Spot. He grinned.

"One of us had to stay in New York," Skittery shrugged. "Why not me?"

"You could have gone into the army, like me," said Mush proudly. "To see the world."

"I'll see the world, eventually," Skittery smiled gently. "But for now, New York's gonna shelter me."

"What do you think it'll be like when we all leave?" asked Danny and a flurry of excited conversation arose.

Skittery listened half-heartedly, but was actually absorbed in watching the city through the window. The lights of the skyscrapers twinkled in the distance, warming up the dark night. He watched the cars roll along the street below, wondering what sort of people occupied the drivers' seats. Probably New Yorkers like himself, he decided, and average Joes. They probably loved their city as much as he did and had ambitions like his. But on this night, more than any other, he was a step above them: he was in his warm home, surrounded by his best friends, even in the midst of the city he loved most. Then he wondered how different it would be next year.

__

Better not to think about it yet, he decided, _because it will happen soon enough._

The chatter of the boys floated past his ears. Then he heard Spot call, "Ah, calm dahn, you're all gettin' too loud. Look at poor Skitts ovah there -- he ain't able tah get a word in edge-wise."

Skittery smiled. "I'm just listening to you guys. Actually, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't called yet."

"That's why I'm tellin' 'em they gotta keep it down!" Spot exclaimed. Someone threw a pillow at him. "Why's it always 'torture the Brooklyn kid'?" he howled in indignation, then grinned wolfishly. "You ain't gonna get away with that, kid!"

"And I suppose you think that you can stop him?" Specs asked. His blond friend Erik Samson, AKA Dutchy on behalf on his ethnicity, grinned widely, but there was no innocence in it, try as he might.

Spot leapt, but not before Alan Parker got ahold of him. The result was an odd combination of forward motion and strong restraint, a backwards-type of flying. A gurgly noise came from Spot as he rounded on Blink and got in a few good punches, not full-force, but enough to make the one-eyed boy yelp and let go. Pillows rained down from every which direction as Spot tried, almost successfully, to block the hits. Even when the cushion supply was strewn out of reach, laughter ensued, and Spot was congratulated on his superior reflexes. "I ain't king'a Brooklyn for nothin'," he assured them, violet eyes alight with his sweet smile. Skittery knew that Spot's smile and his tough-guy ways had stolen the heart of many a girl, but he was not so sure that Spot was as … _tough_ as he seemed.

It was late into the night was they left, taking the buses and subways back to their homes. Out of respect for Skittery's tired mother they had agreed to sleep at their own places, and now Skittery was left with the responsibility of cleaning up the various piles of mess stacked around the room. _No bother, though,_ he thought as he glanced the den over, _I miss them when they're away._

"Michael?" He heard his mother coming down the stairs. She was in her bathrobe, hair all askew and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. "Michael, are they gone?"

He ignored the question and took the cigarette from her. He was taller than her now, and stronger.

"Michael, please, baby, give that back," she begged and out of pity and obedience he handed it over to her. With a long trail of smoke drifting from her lips, she said, "Oh, the mess isn't bad. They're good boys, so nice."

"I'll clean it up, Mom," Skittery said. "Don't worry about it. You go to bed."

"Oh, Michael, thank you." Her relief was obvious. Ever since the divorce, she seemed to have become so much more frantic and harried, always in disarray and smoking the same cigarettes she had vowed to give up so many times before. "Give me a kiss, son, and if I need you tomorrow morning, will you take Maddy to her ballet classes?"

"Sure I will, Momma. You go to sleep. You look tired, Momma, but put out that cigarette."

Reluctantly she agreed. Skittery moved toward the living room to collect the empty cans, but his mother called out, "Where's my kiss, Michael?"

He leaned down and laid soft lips on her pale cheek. "Good night, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too, Michael." She turned and took a few steps, then hesitated. Without facing him, she said, "You know I'm very proud of you, Michael, don't you?"

Skittery nodded. "Of course, Momma."

"Well, good night, then," she said after the confirmation and turned and went back up the stairs. "Don't stay up too late," came the call as she reached the top, then Skittery heard her door click shut, and all was quiet.

__

Not quiet, exactly, he realised as he listened to the street below. He had long become accustomed to the noise outside, the noise of the city, but now, when he was all alone, he strained to hear the world beyond. Exhaustion fell upon him, and he looked over at the mess. _Well, it's sure not going anywhere,_ he thought sleepily to himself. _I can take care of it tomorrow._

After traipsing upstairs to his room, he pulled off his shirt and jeans and fell into bed. With one click he shut off the lamp on his bedside table. The cool darkness felt good before he pulled the blankets over himself.

New York surrounded him from every direction and the light of the city managed to slip faintly through his windows. But it was the same as the noise, and he paid it no heed.

__

Tomorrow, he thought, then yawned. Tomorrow what? It would all be better? He wasn't sure. But it was the last thought in his mind before the blissful darkness fell.

__

Tomorrow …


	2. Two: Skittery Pays a Visit

Hey there! **Thanks so very much** for choosing this story to read out of all the others on the list … **it is,** you must believe, **greatly appreciated.**

Again, _I am sending a desperate plea_ to anyone who may be able to help me with a problem. I know that the readers and authors on ff.net come from all walks of life and have all kinds of different experiences under their belts. So to those of you who may know any sort of solution, my problem is this: I am currently seventeen years old, soon to be eighteen. Of the three colleges to which I applied, I have been accepted at all three and could not be happier about that. However, my choice has been, and still is, New York University, a fantastic school for my desired major of journalism. Only one barrier is in the way: money. I know this is a problem almost everyone faces, but as my dad was just recently unemployed for almost a year, it's as if I've been struck by the Plague itself. Although he is working at the moment, the job pays next to nothing, and we are fearful that the loans for which we are applying may fall through and be denied. Of course, if someone out there reading this right now knew a way I could make some money, potentially and most desirably, by way of writing, it would be great. In about another month and a half, I will be working three jobs myself to compensate for our previous loss of income and earn some cash for school. I don't care what it takes. **This is my desperate, heartfelt plea for ANY kind of solution at all.** Newspapers; children's books; independent agencies looking for a certain plot or character; someone looking for a hand-written, personalised story; ANYTHING … I don't care. I will do it. Email skyefeyden@hotmail.com or leave it in a review, if you'd be so graciously kind.

Many thanks if you've read that, and sorry it took so long to put out this second chapter. I've just arrived back from New York City and in addition to my Manhattan shot glass, I also brought back the flu and was (grumble, grumble) confined to bed for a few days. Thankfully, this time wasn't bad enough for all my muses to leave me like they usually do, and this is the finished product of a few days of nothing else. Thanks, and enjoy! (And sorry the titles of my chapter are so frigging lame!)

Arty -- Yeah, I figured that was the case. It's just that no standardized computer font can beat my decidedly superior penmanship! Just kidding, but in all truth, yeah, hand-written things always seem a little nicer.

****

Fizban -- haha, love the name … well, I am glad you liked it, but as you can see, I do plan on continuing this. I have tons of plans, but whether or not I actually ever write them in and finish this thing is a horse of another color entirely. New York was great, and thanks for your review!

****

ershey -- I always see your stuff posted and I swear I'll get around to reviewing it soon. If I wasn't so massively dyslexic, it might be a tad easier, haha. No, really, I am not dyslexic but I can't read too well at all. But never fear, I plan on making it a point to read your fics, too, because you are so wonderfully nice to me. Thanks for your review, I really appreciate it. A third chapter should be coming soon, I hope.

****

***

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Forever

Chapter Two: Skittery Pays a Visit 

"MICHAEL, MICHAEL DARLING, ARE YOU AWAKE?"

Sunlight streamed into his world. The voice of his mother floated through his door and she continued to knock for a moment, then called again, "Wake up, Michael, I need you to take Maddy."

"I'm sleeping," he replied curtly, then rolled over. 8:00 AM flashed from his radio-alarm clock in bright neon yellow numbers. "Tell her I'll be ready in ten minutes, Momma."

Standing, he found a clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His hair was mused and dirty, but it did not matter. Quickly, he brushed his hair and teeth before descending to the kitchen.

His mother was standing at the stove. Leftover soup was boiling again in an All-Clad pot and a bagel was toasting in the miniature oven. Skittery could smell it burning.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said, putting her arms around him. "Oh, Michael, thank you. I can always count on you." She kissed his cheek. "Tell your Momma that you love her, won't you?"

"Of course I love you, Mom," he said and stood embracing her for a moment. "When is Maddy's class?"

"It starts at 8:30, dear. You should be there by twenty after so that she can warm up."

"Do I need to get her afterwards, too?"

"Oh, Michael, would you?" she asked, as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. "Oh, Michael, you don't know how much of a help you are to me."

But he had never felt like a help. He loved his mother with a fierce protection, but the all-too-recent divorce had thrown her into an awkward phase, a time between light and darkness. Sometimes, Skittery felt like a burden instead.

"Where's James?" he asked as his mother stirred the soup. She turned to him.

"He's still asleep, bless his little heart. Say, Michael," she said, and kissed his cheek. "Would you like to take him and stop at the market for me?"

He felt that he could not disagree without triggering a small explosion. "Sure, Mom. Do you want me to wake him up?"

"Thank you, Michael. You know how much I appreciate this."

"I know, Momma."

He traced the familiar outline of the stairs with his feet as he shuffled to the third floor. Upon peering around James's door, he saw nothing but the small outline of his middle sibling, sleeping soundly. Then the floor creaked, and James stirred.

"Come on," Skittery said. "Get up. We're going shopping." In a softer tone, he said, "You have ten minutes."

In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of apple juice and drank it all. Maddy came padding down the stairs, her long brown hair splayed out on her leotard. Her voice was little, innocent, trusting.

"Skittery," she said, having long ago picked up on his friends' nickname for him. "Are you taking me to my class?"

"I am, and would you like something small to eat?" he asked, his broad palm on the top of her head.

"I want Jell-O."

"For breakfast?"

She giggled. "It jiggles in my tummy when I dance," she said and looked at him with giant eyes.

In spite of himself, he smiled. "Here, and eat quickly."

She took the cup filled with clear redness as Skittery turned the gas down on the stove. He poured her a glass of water and called for James. Slowly, eyes filled with sleep, the middle child came padding down the stairs.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Shopping for Mom."

"She can go shopping herself," James countered. "She never goes shopping anymore."

"Be quiet," Skittery warned. "She's tired, James, can't you see that?"

James shrugged, but said nothing more. He reached up and poured a glass of water.

"Are we going?" Maddy asked.

Skittery felt as if the kitchen were going to explode. "Alright, get your things together."

Emerging onto the front stairs, he closed the door behind him and a cold blast of wind shocked his senses. Maddy held one hand, her pink backpack in the other, and James stayed a dignified distance away, although Skittery knew to look beyond his brother's cool manner to the sensitive, frightened young boy inside.

"Maria said she was bringing her greyhound today and he was going to wait outside for her." Maddy chattered on. "Why don't we have a dog, Skittery?"

"Because no one would take care of it," he told her. "No one's home enough, either."

"You're home," Maddy replied. "You could help me."

"I have to leave soon, Maddy," he told her gently. "And then who would take care of it?"

"I don't want you to leave," she was quietly honest.

He looked at her. "Oh, but Maddy, I'm not going far, just a little north. But still in the city."

"But the city's so big," she told him, looking up at her brother as she walked along with him. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's Momma going to do without you?"

"You'll help her, and James will, too." he answered confidently. "And I'll come see you, when I can."

He tugged her through the streets of this New York morning, watching the people go about their morning routines. Each one had a story, he knew; each one was an independent story filled with all the tragic aspects of life. Some talked about leaving the city, though he understood that they never would. Most would die here, inside their houses, lost forever in the hustle and bustle of a city that would go on without them. It would be the same in life as in death -- always moving, always changing, never looking back, never wearing the same face twice … forever New York City.

The doors of the studio were open and he knelt down to see her at eye level.

"Now you be good," he said, "I'll be back for you at 10:00, and you don't leave with anyone but me."

"I know, I know," she said impatiently, then kissed her brother hastily. "Bye, Skittery!"

Skittery and James watched her retreating back as she ran into the studio. With his sister gone, the middle child took the opportunity to make conversation with the eldest of the family.

"What's Spot going to do after high school?" he asked, looking up at Skittery, who shook his head.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I think he's going to stay with his dad for a while until they both get used to each other."

"I feel bad," James said. He was quiet for a moment. "I liked his mom. She was very nice."

Skittery nodded. "Yes, she was. But bad things happen to good people, and there's nothing that we can do about it."

"I know." James fell silent.

***

It was still early in the morning when Skittery emerged from the cold streets, groceries in his arms, Maddy close by his side. As James set down an armful of paper bags, the phone rang.

Casting a stern glance at the other two, warning them away from answering it, Skittery picked it up without letting the caller ID identify the other line.

"Hello?"

"Skittery? Is that you?"

He groaned, recognizing the other voice. "Yeah, Dad."

"Hey, son," now it was friendly. "How are you?"

"I'm sleeping," he lied. "Or trying to."

A pause. "Sorry. Is your mother around, then?"

"No." His protective instincts took over. "She went out."

Another pause. The tension was almost unbearable now. "Well, then, tell her I'll call her later. So how are you, son?"

"I'm great, but I'm also sleeping. Or trying to."

Exasperation. "I know, Mike, you said that already. Alright, go back to bed, but call me sometime. We never talk anymore."

Skittery chose, at that moment, not to speak the thoughts that were in his head. "I've been busy, so it's been tough. NYU stuff, you know?"

He sensed some repression in his father's words as well. "Yes, I know. But I love you, son, and take care of yourself and Maddy and James and your mother."

He saluted the phone with just the slightest bit of sarcasm in his manner. "Will do."

"Bye, Mike. Love you."

"Bye." He hung up quickly.

James was on the computer when Skittery left again. He stepped onto the curb and waved down a taxi. 

"Between Grand and Broome, please," he said and felt for the money in his pocket. Once assured that it was there, he settled into the leather seat.

Manhattan passed around him in a flash as the cab driver wove his way through the narrow streets. Sometimes he knew his out-of-town and out-of-state friends to be surprised at the speed and dexterity of swerving that the cabbies used when navigating Manhattan's grid system. But he himself had long grown used to it, and it was only minutes later when he stepped out of the yellow vehicle into the famed Little Italy.

Racetrack's family still lived in Little Italy, having come "straight off the boat" when Racetrack was little more than a year old and completely unable to remember anything of Italy. Now, after years of business in America, they were wealthy in their own right, and took great pride in their lucrative little authentic Italian restaurant.

Skittery stopped to buy some colorful flowers from a vendor set up along the curb. They cost him $3 total and smelled good, and he hadn't seen Race in days.

He loved Little Italy for its colors, smells, and fighting spirit. The garlands proclaiming, "Welcome to Little Italy," always gave him cheer, and he loved the inhabiting Italians, too. He thought it best when the restaurant owners standing on the curb, acting as greeters, still spoke with the floating, beautiful accent of their native country. There was nothing better than sitting down and being served wonderful food by dark-haired, dark-eyes, dark-skinned, true Italian people.

"Hey, Mrs. Higgins," he said as he swung into the restaurant. It was still early, but a few customers were dining in the corner.

"Hello, Michael," the warm woman answered, smiling at him. Her accent was still thick and beautiful and her dark eyes crinkled with her kindness. A long time ago she had explained that the un-Italian name "Higgins" had been passed on by some Irishman back in the days of World War I. But the name of their restaurant was her maiden name, and a big sign saying, "Garliduci's" was hung above the door. "How are you?"

"I'm great, thanks for asking, and you?"

"A little tired, with Christmas just passed, but I'm well." She spoke impeccable English. "If you're here to see Anthony, he's upstairs in his room. He's still a little sick."

He lifted up the flowers with one dismissive hand. "If I know Anthony, he needs something to freshen the air."

She smiled. "Go ahead, and bless you, Michael," she intoned kindly as she went to ring up a departing customer. 

He climbed the back stairs and knocked quietly. A weak voice answered, "Come in," and he pushed open the door. 

"Hello, Race," he said, smiling. "I brought these for you."

"Oh, heya, Skitts. Howya doin'?" Race tried to sit up. The book _Seabiscuit_ lay crumpled on his bed (A/N: excellent book, go buy it if you haven't read it already!).

Skittery smiled at the irony of the question. "I'm great, Race, but you don't look so good."

Racetrack waved away the comment. "Eh, I'm fine. Just caught meself a bit of the flu."

"Everyone was sorry you missed the party last night."

"Me too."

He looked around the room. It was a place he loved, a cheerful affair in which pictures were hung in every available spot along the walls. There were frames filled with Anthony and his father; Anthony and his mother (after all, no one loves their Momma like an Italian); a million pictures of Anthony and the Higgins' thoroughbred, Son of the Pride; and the smiling faces of Anthony and Spot. Newspaper clippings speckled the flat planes were there was too much of an odd space for a full frame, most of them highlighting the great achievements of Son of the Pride and blaring forth black-and-white photographs of a smiling Anthony and the beloved horse.

"So how long are you going to be out of commission?"

"I dunno … I've been stuck in my damn bed for two days already."

"And you say it's just the flu?"

"Yes, Mom," Race said, then laughed weakly. His dark hair was greasier than ever, and his face was overly pale. "Soon, though. Just gimme some rest. Then I'll be fine."

Skittery put an affectionate hand on his friend's forehead. "I didn't mean to disturb you, Race. Tell me where to put the flowers and then I'll be on my way."

"There's a vase over there." A weak hand pointed to a table across the room, under the windows. Against the bright yellow of the walls, the flowers looked especially festive and cheerful.

"There you go, Race. Get well soon, okay?"

"I'm tryin'. Thanks, Skitts. I'll see everyone soon. Just a few more days," he said weakly. He buried his dark head into the pillow.

"Okay, Race." he said gently and pulled the covers up a bit. On the bedside table were two pictures, one of Racetrack cheek to cheek with and holding the bridle of Son of the Pride, and one of Racetrack and Spot, smiling in Central Park. It looked as if they had taken the picture themselves. "I'll say goodbye, then."

"Yeah, Skitts, see ya later." It sounded as if he were already half asleep.

Skittery closed the door on the way out, making as little noise as possible. Then he was gone, and free to wander again.


End file.
